War in the Wilderness: The Chindits in Burma 1943-1944

recorded.

PREFACE

MAJOR NEVILLE Hogan, MBE, Chairman of the Chindits Old Comrades’ Association, is a straighttalking man. When I began work on this book and first approached him, he asked: ‘Why now? Why talk to us now? After all, we are in our eighties. Some are in their nineties. In fact, most of us are dead!’

These initial comments were not encouraging. Happily, however, Neville Hogan’s gruff exterior belies an extraordinarily generous heart. His help and support opened many doors. Some 50 veterans agreed to be interviewed. Family members were enthusiastic, providing documents, letters, photographs and several important unpublished accounts.

Hogan’s question demands an answer. Why now? The reasons are personal, in part. My father, John ‘Jack’ Redding, was a Chindit with the 2nd Battalion, King’s Own Royal Regiment. He took part in the Operation Thursday assault glider landings in the Burmese jungle clearing code-named ‘Broadway’. In common with so many of his generation, he said little about his war. The family is left with half a dozen anecdotes, one or two of an exceedingly unpleasant character.

My father was overseas for four years and four months. He arrived back in England in March 1946. He assumed he had priority for demob but, to his surprise and fury, was told he would soon embark for further service abroad, this time to Palestine. This was too much. He argued his case and won, but the anger persisted for many years. He returned his medals and put the war behind him, beyond the occasional bout of recurrent malaria.

I never really talked to my father about his experience as a Chindit; I had the idea it would disturb him. In the late 1990s, my father entered his eighties and had a change of heart. He obtained a new set of medals, joined the Burma Star Association and marched past the Cenotaph later in the year. Indeed, he marched on three successive Novembers. On the final occasion we arrived early and visited the Garden of Remembrance in the grounds of Westminster Abbey. We reached the Chindits’ plot. I asked if he wanted a cross, to remember someone. He asked for two, for farmer’s boy Dave Davies, from Wiltshire and another close friend, ‘Nobby’ Evans. Both died in Burma; one was killed in action and the other succumbed to cerebral malaria. When I placed the crosses my father broke down. I realised, at that point, that my many questions would never be asked.

My father died in May 2005. Three years later, my wife and I, idle on a Sunday afternoon, visited the country’s largest military ‘Living History’ event at the Kent County Showground. That day I met Bill Smith — ‘Chindit Bill’ — for the first time. It was an unforgettable encounter. Bill was dressed as a Chindit NCO, complete with his late father’s bush hat, large pack and Thompson submachine gun. To my delight, his companions had two mules, equipped Chindit-fashion. Bill and I have much in common. Our fathers were Chindits. We wanted to find out more and we shared a deep admiration for those who took part in Wingate’s two expeditions. My meeting with ‘Chindit Bill’ was the catalyst that prompted the preparation of this book.

War against a fanatical enemy, behind the lines in the North Burmese jungle, imposed physical and mental demands probably exceeding those experienced in any other form of combat. I make no apology for setting out the appalling nature of the Chindit experience, in often painful detail. How else would one measure the spirit and determination of those who endured?

This book is not an attempt to tell the story from the perspective of a military academic. I have no qualifications for such a project. Many books have considered Wingate’s expeditions and the man himself. These works are of varying quality. Some were written by historians; others were produced by those who were there, notably Slim, Calvert, Fergusson and Masters.

This book is not the latest in a long series of attempts to tell Orde Charles Wingate’s story. Wingate is an enigma, nearly 70 years after his death on a remote hillside in Assam. I have no wish to join the Wingate bandwagon. Books about him almost always set out to prove something: Wingate was a madman, who threw away the lives of too many good men for little real return; Wingate was a genius, far ahead of his time, who influenced Japanese strategic thinking and contributed significantly to the enemy’s destruction in Burma. Towering far above the extremes is a simple fact: most of Wingate’s Chindits idolised him. He won deep respect, affection and loyalty among most (but certainly not all) of his men.

To conclude, I have no wish to play the military academic. The purpose of this book is to document the Chindit operations through the memories of the veterans. It serves as a testament to their courage and extraordinary fortitude. It offers a human perspective for the children, grandchildren and those who come after. I have drawn on the extensive literature on Wingate and the Chindits so far as necessary to provide a context for personal accounts. I thank all those who so kindly gave their permission for quotations from those publications.

It was an honour and privilege to interview such a grand body of men. Most interviews were conducted in person. In many cases the memories shared were voiced for the first time. Openness came at a price. Some contributors felt the pain of events that occurred over six decades ago, still raw and vivid — as if they happened yesterday. A number of contributors were in failing health yet remained determined to contribute. One man, when asked if he could continue, remarked: ‘I take each day as it comes, just as I did then!’

Naturally, there are limitations when recounting memories from over 60 years ago. There are many difficulties relating to chronology, locations, unresolved issues surrounding the complex Chindit operations and, of course, the interactions of personalities such as Wingate, Stilwell, Lentaigne, Fergusson, Calvert and Masters. That said, the author trusts that the operational narrative provides a robust spine for the personal commentaries — including those from the Mustang pilot flying top cover over Broadway clearing, the medical orderly who nursed Wingate after his suicide attempt, the man who took another’s life to save him from possible torture and those who suffered the long trial of incarceration by the Japanese. Material from the interviews is presented for the most part in italics. Doubts over particular issues are mentioned in the text. That said, the responsibility for residual errors rests entirely with the author.

The contributors include Sergeant Major Bob Hobbs of Westgate, Kent. During our conversation I mentioned my father’s Chindit service. Hobbs asked if he was still alive. When I said no, he paused, deep in thought, and then remarked: ‘Your father may be gone, but he keeps very good company!’ Hobbs’ comment stayed with me throughout the preparation of this book. It was an inspiration. There is a large table in Valhalla, with a reserved seat for every Chindit.

Tony Redding

Ash, Canterbury, Kent

INTRODUCTION

ONE CAN only wonder at the physical and mental resilience of the Chindits. One factor stands out beyond all else: the alien character of the jungle environment for most who fought in North Burma. The author’s father, for example, grew up in modest circumstances in one of the grimmer inner suburbs of South London, a different world indeed from the Burmese jungle.

George MacDonald Fraser (Quartered Safe Out Here) considers the jungle’s impact on the individual:

It is disconcerting to find yourself soldiering in an exotic oriental country which is medieval in outlook, against a barbarian enemy given to burying prisoners up to their neck or hanging them by the heels for bayonet practice … where you could get your dinner off a tree, be eaten alive by mosquitoes and leeches … wake in the morning to find your carelessly neglected mess tin occupied by a spider the size of a soup plate, watch your skin go white and puffy in ceaseless rain … gape in wonder at huge, gilded pagodas silent in the wilderness and find yourself taken aback at the sight of a domestic water tap, because you haven’t seen such a thing for months.

These pressures were compounded for the Chindits, operating behind enemy lines and as much the hunted as the hunters. Fraser added that service in Burma was ‘with the possible exception of aircrew … generally believed to be the worst ticket you could draw in the lottery of active service.’

The jungle offered psychological as well as physical challenges. There was immense mental pressure, with no prospect of relief. J.P. Cross (Jungle Warfare) comments: ‘The very nature of primary jungle, its close-horizontal, all pervading, never-ending green of trees, vines, creepers and undergrowth prevents the eyes from seeing as far as the ears can hear, so voices have to be kept low and equipment so handled that it does not reverberate.’

Absolute silence, of course, was impossible in a Column of 400 men and their animals. Efforts to keep the noise down aggravated the tension. Bernard Fergusson (Beyond the Chindwin) described how this affected the nerves. During Operation Longcloth in 1943, when approaching Tonmakeng, Fergusson’s Column met others on the track:

I found that one Column had forbidden talking and was making all men converse in whispers. I was shocked to find this, for I am convinced it is bad psychology and leads to undue nervousness. Talking in a low voice is another thing altogether and can easily be acquired with training, but whispering is hard on the voice as well as the nerves and leads, moreover, to misunderstandings. It is a bad rule and this Column, I know, did away with it after a bit.

It is unfortunate that some lessons from Operation Longcloth were overlooked when Operation Thursday began the following year. Free conversation between men had a positive influence on morale. Rhodes James (Chindit) wrote of the central importance of comradeship: ‘In the enforced intimacy of the Column, men became neighbours and bedfellows, sharing fires and pooling rations. Every man was found out for what he was and those who stood the test … had good reason to be proud.’ Cross described life in the jungle as

… a state of permanent dampness, rain or sweat, of stifling, mindless heat, of dirty clothes, of smelling bodies, of heavy loads, of cocked and loaded weapons, of tensed reflexes, of inaccurate maps, of constant vigilance, of tired limbs, of sore shoulders where equipment straps have bitten in, of a chafed crotch, of the craving for a cigarette and a cold beer for some and a cup of tea for others.

The enemy often became almost an aside in these appalling conditions. Cross added:

The real fight was against the enervating climate, the demanding terrain, the corroding atmosphere of unrelieved tension, the fitfulness of sleep and lack of hot meals, of disease and of accident, of having to carry everything everywhere as one side groped for the other like a grotesque game of blind man’s bluff. All the while the soldier had to be ready for a split second contact, for a few minutes of hectic action when patrol bumped patrol or, after great effort, an attack was launched or an ambush sprung.

A Chindit Column Commander and his men had to be ready to face any eventuality. Two separate rendezvous positions (24 hours and subsequent) were agreed and communicated each day. Bill Towill (A Chindit’s Chronicle) describes the significance of the RV:

We were under constant threat of ambush or having to meet the enemy in a hard-fought action, in which some of our men might be scattered and not able to regroup immediately and it was therefore essential for everyone to know how they could link up with the main body again.

Each man marched with the equivalent of around half his bodyweight on his back. This was the very essence of Chindit soldiering. An iron will was required to bear such a load in tropical (and, later, Monsoon) conditions across some of the toughest country on Earth. Even in dry conditions the going was hard. Rhodes James:

The continual plod through dust or mud, the back of the man in front, up, down, up, down, eyes fixed on his boots, inspecting each scrap of dust as it was shaken off his heel, the periodical shifting of his pack or changing of his arms, waiting for him to negotiate a difficult part of the track. Watching him impersonally, unconsciously, but cursing him for what he was, the maddening rhythm in our eyes. Mad? No, just very weary and inexpressibly bored, when each unusual move or faltering step becomes a major event.

The widespread belief that all Chindits were volunteers was a myth. Some officers and men did volunteer, for many different reasons. Some even volunteered twice, despite the sufferings of the first expedition. Yet most had no say in the matter. Some units consisted of unpromising material, though these Battalions blossomed as the unfit and unsuitable were weeded out in a gruelling training regime that removed every vestige of civilised life.

Observations on training — made by Cross — are probably as relevant today as they were in 1943 and 1944:

Special training is necessary to accustom troops to the strange conditions of jungle life. This training … must inculcate the ability to move quickly and silently, to find the way accurately and with confidence, to shoot to kill at disappearing targets from all positions on the ground, out of trees and from the hip, to carry out tactical operations in the jungle by means of battle drill without waiting for detailed orders. Above all, the highest pitch of physical toughness was, and still is, essential for everyone involved and the leadership of junior commanders must be confident, offensive and inspiring.

Adjusting a load: efforts to keep the noise down aggravated the tension. Lieutenant John Salazar took many photographs while inside Burma and these were circulated widely after the war. (John Riggs)

The men who experienced the strain of Chindit operations became extraordinarily close. They paired up. If safe to do so they made fires – one man would prepare two meals while his ‘mucker’ made cha. Pairs would shelter together and watch each other’s backs at vulnerable moments, such as when answering calls of nature.

A lonely grave: Chindits bury a comrade, the grave marked by a simple bamboo cross. Later, efforts were made to recover remains for formal interment. (Trustees of the Imperial War Museum)

Companionship and food were the great influences on morale. The lengthy dependence on emergency K-rations did much to undermine Special Force’s fighting capacity. Following Blackpool Block’s fall and in the push towards Mogaung, Rhodes James wrote of a slow descent into starvation:

For four months we had been existing on K-rations, which is, I think, a world record. These rations had been augmented to some extent but the K-ration remained the basis. Before going into operations we had been assured that the rations contained an ample reserve of calories and we believed it. The truth, we afterwards discovered, was something entirely different. The K-ration was only sufficient to keep up a man’s strength for 10 days at fighting pitch.

The lack of bulk and sheer monotony of K-rations ground down the strongest:

The exotic American flavours began to nauseate us … the troops were weakened through unsuitable rations and the process was accelerated by the fact that they could not make themselves eat all that was provided. Jaded appetites could be stirred by onions and we always welcomed them. Rice, which we obtained locally, was our greatest standby; it filled our bellies and left us deeply satisfied, while it could form the basis for all kinds of food. But there was not enough of it.

News from home was also important and occasionally available by air drop. This could have highly positive or disastrously negative effects on morale at the individual level. Some men receiving bad news from (or about) wives and girlfriends lost the will to live. Some men had low expectations. Major Denis Arnold, MC, commented dryly: ‘I didn’t expect any mail from home and received very little, although I did receive some herbal cigarettes from my mother!’

Disease was a part of daily life. Everyone appreciated the potentially fearful consequences of falling ill. Many felt it better to be killed than be seriously wounded or fall gravely ill. Disease brought many men very low, to the point of extreme indifference or even suicide. Denis Arnold remembers two cases where men shot themselves – ‘possibly in the deep depression that can result from a bout of scrub typhus.’

A report from the Medical Officer of the 4th Border Regiment (23 Brigade), following operations in the Naga Hills, reveals the extraordinary regime surrounding the treatment of the sick. Captain (later, Lieutenant Col.) H.W.W. Good’s paper set out recommendations for tackling Chindit medical problems (Imperial War Museum, 87/37/1): ‘Unless the Long Range Penetration Column becomes involved in a major action, the problem of sickness is far greater than that of battle casualties.’ He added:

It is obvious, from the very start, that a different attitude has to be taken towards sickness on LRP than is taken in any form of operations where one can either evacuate a sick man or hold him in a sick bay long enough to get him on his feet again.

Officers must set an example:

If you are feeling groggy, go along and see the MO at one of the long halts and get some medicine and make yourself carry on, and you will find that the bulk of your men will do the same. You are also in a better moral position to drive on the unwilling.

Good went on to stress the value of a no-compromise regime during training: ‘The maxim I used to lay down in lecturing troops was that as long as a man is conscious, is not in severe pain and has no impediment of locomotion, such as a severe injury to leg or foot, he will keep marching.’ He had good things to say about the wide range of drugs and equipment made available to Column MOs: ‘Practically every known complaint is catered for and the only thing impossible to prescribe is rest.’

On Mepacrine discipline, Good was emphatic on use of the malaria suppressant: ‘Make sure to dispel the rumour that is always stated among the men that Mepacrine makes a man sterile. I can assure you such is not the case.’

Good’s advice to Platoon Commanders on operations was, if possible, to look at all wounds: ‘By this means you will become accustomed to seeing what may previously have seemed very frightening conditions and you will not get into a flap about them.’ His advice extended to basic sanitation: ‘Make it a drill that no man goes for a rear during a halt in the march, or in an area where a latrine is impracticable unless he brings a digging implement … never permit a man to have a rear within 100 yards of a water point.’

Captain Good wrote with some authority. His Column operated with 23 Brigade from 10 April to 19 July 1944, in some of the most difficult mountain country in the world. His report notes, with understandable pride:

We started some 400 strong and arrived at Imphal less two officers and 23 ORs. Of these, one officer and five ORs were killed and one officer and six ORs wounded. I think these figures speak for themselves, as the remaining 12 men were the only cases evacuated through illness.

As might be expected, many other Columns had a very different experience, with disease cutting great swathes in their ranks.

In every Chindit’s mind was the fear of being left behind. This was the practice during the first expedition, although efforts might be made to lodge the sick or wounded in a friendly village, if any existed in the immediate area. During the second expedition, in 1944, the practice was to fly out the wounded and sick but, in practice, this was very difficult after the Monsoon broke in mid-May.

This book contains previously unpublished accounts from men unable to continue. They survived, against the odds, by their sheer determination to live. Philip Stibbe’s prologue to Return via Rangoon sums up what it meant to be left behind:

According to my watch it was 10am. I guess the day was 31 March 1943. I suddenly realised that I had been alone for 48 hours, alone in the Burmese jungle somewhere east of the Irrawaddy River and probably further east at that moment than any British soldier on active service. I had practically nothing to eat or drink and I was wounded in the chest … I was not particularly cheerful but at no point during those 48 hours do I remember feeling despondent. I certainly spent some time praying to be given courage to face whatever lay ahead and this was an immense source of help.

Many Chindits refused to give in, even when their worst fears were realised. At the same time, of course, those left behind, with a spare water bottle and extra grenades, knew their chances of survival were virtually zero. Yet, in many cases they ordered their men – or simply told their mates – to leave them.

Fergusson (The Wild Green Earth) recalled the deep sense of deliverance felt by the 30 members of his dispersal party in 1943, having crossed the Chindwin to safety: ‘For the last month we were all quite sure that, if only we got out, nothing on Earth would ever have the power to worry us again.’

Having had the honour to meet many Chindit veterans, over 60 years after these events in their young lives, the author found echoes of that self-assurance. Many men said, in so many words: ‘We felt totally self-confident. We knew nothing we would face in life would ever be as bad as that.’ Certainly, the author’s father had that self-assurance. It remained with him for the rest of his life.

The following pages include some grim reading. Yet those seeking a reason for the resilience of the Chindits might find the answer in the wry humour of the men in the Columns. Captain Jeffrey of the Lancashire Fusiliers (Sunbeams Like Swords) wrote of his Batman’s comments when they were in action at night. The men were in a ditch along a track:

Walker and I were making our usual pilgrimage from the rear of the Column to the front when we suddenly heard a voice from the ditch: ‘Are there any Japs about, Walker?’ Walker turned a grim face in the direction of the voice and said slowly: ‘Yes. Thousands and thousands of them, Sir, and they’re after you!’

RAF Officer W.A. Wilcox, with 23 Brigade’s 76 Column (2nd Duke of Wellington’s Regiment), wrote in a postscript to his book, Chindit Column 76: ‘I apologise to the reader for the monotonous repetition of rain, pain and discomfort. In self defence, I can only assert that it was really so and leave it at that.’ This author can muster a similar defence. These pages reflect the experiences and sufferings of brave men with sufficient goodwill and strength to share many painful memories.

1

AN EXCEPTIONAL MAN …

AN EXTRAORDINARY PERSONALITY

‘Wingate was a strange, excitable, moody creature, but he had fire in him. He could ignite other men.’

Field Marshal Viscount Slim

BRITISH COMMANDERS in the Far East had dismissed Japanese fighting qualities but then suffered humiliating defeats after the Pearl Harbor attack in December 1941. These crushing blows shifted opinion from one extreme to the other. J.P. Cross (Jungle Warfare ) wrote that the prevailing view of the Japanese as ‘second rate soldiers’ changed rapidly. Now the enemy were regarded as

… supermen, experts in the jungle in a way never previously imagined, invincible, brave to a degree unsuspected and malignantly cruel in a manner few had ever contemplated modern man could be. They also despised the softness and lack of military endeavour in their enemies. They used the jungle as a conduit of movement; the Allies tried to fight the jungle and the enemy and, to start with, were unsuccessful against both.¹

The Japanese soldier’s aggression commanded respect:

They fought with savage and, at times, hysterical fury. They were very brave. If 50 Japanese were holding a position, 45 of them would have to be killed before the rest would kill themselves and the position could be taken.²

Most Allied commanders – General (later, Field Marshal Viscount) Slim included – acknowledged this bravery. Slim commented:

The strength of the Japanese Army lay not in its higher leadership, which, once its career of success had been checked, became confused, nor in its special aptitude for jungle warfare, but in the spirit of the individual Japanese soldier. He fought and marched till he died.³

Yet the Japanese were not invincible. They were poorly organised and had a strange lack of discipline. Cross wrote: ‘Fighting patrols, of about 20 men, were not very skilful. They liked to keep to paths and moved without precaution, often giving their presence away by soldiers talking.’⁴

Beyond fighting quality the Japanese drew strength from their recognition of the jungle as shelter and shield, rather than a second enemy. The Allies had no choice here: they had to adopt a similar attitude if they were to prevail. This change would take time. Certainly, it came too late to save Burma from conquest in 1942. It would take a truly exceptional man, with an extraordinary personality, to bring such change.

Orde Charles Wingate is by no means unique. Over the centuries many British military leaders of extraordinary quality have emerged to shape the course of events. It is not unusual for such reputations to be built on a combination of eccentricity and ability. Such men tend to make enemies among able yet more conventional men. From the very first, the entire enterprise – the strategic and tactical principles of Long Range Penetration and the fundamentals of what it meant to be a Chindit – belonged to Wingate alone. There were two Chindit expeditions: the Brigade-scale Operation Longcloth in 1943 and the much larger Operation Thursday in 1944. If a fundamental criticism can be levelled at Wingate, it is that LRP and the man became indivisible. He made himself virtually irreplaceable and, in doing so, exposed his force to much abuse after his untimely death in March 1944.

Eccentricity, ability and vision: Orde Charles Wingate, pictured in the final hours before his death in an air crash. (Trustees of the Imperial War Museum)

Wingate was born at Naini Tal, in the Himalayan foothills, on 26 February 1903. His parents were Plymouth Brethren, a strongly puritanical sect. Colonel Wingate, having returned to England with his family, led a spartan existence. Much of the family income was devoted to missionary causes. The Wingate children received their early education at home, away from other children.

Orde Wingate was a loner at Charterhouse School. He left in 1920 and entered the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich. He sought a commission in the Royal Artillery and joined 5 Medium Brigade. ‘Cousin Rex’ (Sir Reginald Wingate, a former Governor-General of the Sudan and High Commissioner of Egypt) watched over his progress. Presumably, Wingate took his advice; he enrolled at London’s School of Oriental and African Studies.⁵

When posted to Egypt Wingate sent his luggage ahead, cycled across Europe and joined a ship at Genoa. In 1928 he was posted to the Sudan Defence Force. He was to spend six years in the Sudan. Wingate’s appetite for exotic adventure led to an expedition with camels into the Libyan Desert in early 1933, ostensibly searching for the ‘lost oasis’ of Zerzura. He lived hard on dates, biscuits, cod liver oil and oranges. This foray allowed the 30–year-old Wingate to develop his qualities of leadership and self-discipline.⁶

Two life-changing events then occurred. During the voyage home from Egypt in March 1933 he met his future wife, Lorna Patterson, who was then just 16. They married on 24 January 1935. The second was his posting to Palestine, as an intelligence officer with 5th Infantry Division. The 1917 Balfour Declaration supported a Jewish National Home in Palestine, but no-one, at that time, could have foreseen the rise of Nazi Germany less than 20 years later and its pitiless persecution of the Jews. Jewish immigration in the wake of the Nuremburg Laws triggered more violence in Palestine. There was much British sympathy for the Arabs, but Wingate held a contrary view; he and Lorna became fervent Zionists.⁷

Wingate was self-opinionated, entirely free of selfdoubt and a dogged advocate of the Jewish cause. As a young officer he cultivated powerful friends and worked hard – propelled by a genuine empathy – to overcome Jewish suspicions. Slowly, the doubters were converted and his friends included Jewish Agency leader Chaim Weizmann. By early 1937 Wingate was arguing that the Jews should be armed. He then went further, making a dangerous offer to assist in the organisation of an underground Jewish Defence Force.⁷

Wingate was out of his depth in the circles of high politics. He was a soldier with a sharp political edge to his tongue, yet his strong views radiated from a naive inner conviction, rather than political interest. Wingate was blind to politics at the sophisticated level. Consequently, many regarded him as extremely dangerous – a loose cannon.

The Peel Commission proposed the partition of Palestine into British, Jewish and Arab zones. Arab attacks on Jewish settlements intensified as General (later, Field Marshal Viscount) Wavell took command in Palestine. Wingate even engineered an opportunity to board Wavell’s car, to have a face-to-face opportunity to present his ideas for Jewish night patrols to combat ‘terrorists’.

Wavell’s successor, General Haining, backed Wingate’s ‘Special Night Squads’; they began operating in June 1938. Each man was expected to be able to cover 15 miles of country by night. Each Squad had an Arabic speaker, to help win hearts and minds among local communities and make common cause against the ‘terrorists’. These squads were an outstanding success, although Wingate himself was wounded in a skirmish. These exploits earned him a DSO.⁸

In late 1938 Wingate was in London, at Weizmann’s request, pressing the Zionist case in the weeks leading up to the publication of another report, from the Woodhead Commission, but this had little effect. The report was negative towards Jewish interests and the Peel recommendation for partition was overturned. Wingate then came to Winston Churchill’s attention at a dinner party in November, when he seized his chance to explain why the Special Night Squads had been so successful. His story fired Churchill’s imagination; Wingate would be remembered. In contrast, Wingate’s relationship with the Army establishment (other than with one or two prominent champions) continued to sour. Back in Jerusalem he found the Night Squads now had a new commander. On the other hand, he continued to gain trust in Jewish circles and became known as ‘The Friend’.⁹

The first days of war saw Orde Wingate at his London flat, 49 Hill Street, unemployed but with powerful friends. They included Leo Amery (Secretary of State for India and Burma, May 1940–July 1945), who was to be instrumental in creating opportunities for Wingate in Abyssinia and, later, in the Far East. Yet Wingate’s outspoken Zionist views continued to stir resentment and his personality displayed more than a touch of paranoia. On meeting David Ben-Gurion (later to become Israel’s first Prime Minister) in London, he insisted they talk in a car, but not his car!

He was not alone in believing that he and the family were under surveillance. Writing in the early 1960s, Wingate’s mother-in-law, Alice Ivy Hay, claimed:

These apprehensions were not without foundation. In Jerusalem his telephone was tapped and many of his private letters were opened. He did not reject the possibility that recording machines might have been secreted in his apartment, or in his own car, and if ever he had anything important to say to anyone, he preferred to say it in the open – preferably in the middle of a field or open space. In London, his telephone was also tapped (and so was mine in Aberdeen).¹⁰

Thousands of men would be drawn to Orde Wingate’s Chindit standard in a new World War. They included Bill Towill, born in 1920 and the elder of two brothers. His father had been wounded and gassed in the Great War, but had recovered sufficiently to run the family farm near Totnes, Devon.

Towill shared something with Wingate: his family environment was also shaped by strict religious belief. Towill’s plans to become a solicitor were frustrated by war. Acting on conscientious grounds, he joined a local RAMC Territorial unit. The 11th Casualty Clearing Station was absorbed into the Regular Army within 72 hours of war being declared. They went to France as part of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF). The unit arrived at the little village of Pernois, near Amiens. The initial months of the ‘Phoney War’ passed quietly, yet there was a sobering reminder of reality nearby: a huge cemetery for thousands slaughtered in the mud of the Somme.

When the storm broke in May 1940, the German Blitzkreig sought to trap the BEF and the French northern armies against the coast. Towill’s medical unit moved into Belgium but soon joined the general retreat towards the sea. Events pushed Bill Towill towards a crisis of conscience:

‘It was the early morning of Friday, 31 May, exactly three weeks after the start of the Blitzkrieg, and we were at a little seaside resort called La Panne, just inside the Belgian border and some 11 miles along the beach from Dunkirk. Much of the BEF had already been evacuated. I came off night duty and found the rest of the unit formed up on the beach. We were told we were about to march off, but volunteers were wanted to stay with the wounded. So, the order was given: ‘Volunteers, one step, forward march. Volunteers stand fast – remainder dismiss!’ Too many men volunteered. The order was given a second time and still too many volunteered. Yet again the order was given and four of my colleagues and I were left. The rest moved off towards Dunkirk and we were joined by 20 volunteers from other medical units in the area. We were now under the command of Major J.L. Lovibond, one of our officers.’

A large casino on the beach served as a hospital, but heavy shelling prompted a move to the underground shelter next door:

‘The beach was under sporadic shellfire. This caused a lot of casualties among those still making their way past us, on to Dunkirk. We stretchered the wounded back to the shelter and gave what help we could. When night fell it became pitch black. We had no light to carry on, except from the flash of bursting shells. Chunks of shrapnel churned up the sand around us but, miraculously, we weren’t hit.

‘At about 2am on Saturday, 1 June, a few of us accompanied the Major into the casino’s huge ground floor room, which had been turned into a morgue. Around the walls, in orderly rows, were laid the bodies of scores of our dead. We had no chance of giving them proper burial. The Major did the best he could by reading the Burial Service over them. In the inky blackness, the only light was from the tiny flashlight the Major used to read from his prayer book. This reflected the light onto the lower half of his face. He came to a quite amazing passage, from Revelations 21: And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

It would be difficult to over-state the impact of these words, in those circumstances, on a deeply religious 19-year-old lad. The sorrow, pain and death filling all our waking moments during the last three weeks seemed to have eaten into our souls. These great words of hope brought a special uplift to our failing spirits.’

Bill Towill’s future as a Chindit during the second expedition, with 3rd/9th Gurkha Rifles, was determined by the luck of the draw:

‘A couple of hours later the Major called us all together again. The last of our men had long since gone past us and we were quite alone. The Major said the Germans were just down the road and would soon be arriving. There was no need for all of us to be taken prisoner. He put 25 pieces of paper into his hat; each of us would draw one. Eight were numbered. If you drew a number, you stayed and were taken prisoner. If you drew a blank you had the chance to make your way to Dunkirk. Shakily, I put my hand into the hat and withdrew a piece of paper. This very simple act was one of the most important things I have ever done. The whole of the rest of my life depended upon it. Mercifully, I drew a blank.

Those of us free to go set off immediately. We soon reached the flimsy wire fence marking the boundary between Belgium and France; it had been trampled flat by the hordes who had passed over it. From time to time we tried, unsuccessfully, to relaunch boats stranded on the beach. Eventually Dunkirk came into view – it looked like a scene from Dante’s Inferno.

A thick cloud of black smoke from burning oil tanks shrouded the whole area. The beach itself was under constant heavy shellfire, supplemented by bombing and strafing from the air. But what was most fearsome were the Stuka dive-bombers, with their unearthly screaming noise, attacking ships crowded with evacuees and often sinking them, leaving their occupants to almost certain death by drowning.’

Towill’s small group joined the long queue still awaiting evacuation from the Eastern Mole, a timber jetty on the outer side of the eastern breakwater. The back of the queue was at the end of the canal running into the harbour:

‘As I looked down to the canal, on my left, I saw a number of British dead. They all had the same injury – the tops of their skulls had been taken off as if by a can-opener. They seemed to have been caught by an air-burst shell. This was not a healthy place to be.’

As dawn approached, the shelling and strafing intensified and Towill’s group gave up queuing. Back on the beach Towill and the Major dug holes for themselves. At first light they dug themselves out three times when straddled by near misses. Late in the evening the attacks ceased and in that pause men clambered out of their holes in the sand, made their orderly way to the Mole and boarded a ship. It was Sunday, 2 June 1940, and the last day of the evacuation:

‘I had had no sleep at all for three days and nights, so immediately I boarded I was out for the count. I have very few mementoes of the war but treasure a small pewter hip flask with a slip of paper in the Major’s hand which reads: ‘Pte Towill. To commemorate some thirsty hours spent together on Dunkirk Beach, 1 and 2 June 1940. J.L. Lovibond, Major, RAMC.’ That flask has never been filled.’

Return to the Far East: young Bill Smyly at Officer Training Unit, Mhou, on first commission with the 2nd Gurkhas. (Bill Smyly)

Shortly after Bill Towill’s safe return he was recommended for a Commission. In the Autumn of 1941 he went to India as a Cadet.

Religious belief also played a central role in Bill Smyly’s young life. He was born in 1922 in Peking. His father, a missionary Professor of Medicine, went to China in 1912 and stayed until the Communist takeover in 1949. He then pursued his work in Hong Kong and, subsequently, as a leprologist in Africa. Smyly was the eldest of three boys and the children were sent ‘home’ to school. They lived with their grandparents in County Down. His two brothers were too young for war service but Bill Smyly saw an opportunity to return to the Far East. He was just old enough to be accepted for training in India and he was to take part in both Chindit expeditions:

‘I joined a draft for India in 1939. In China, my parents were interned by the Japanese, but put on the very last Exchange Ship bringing back diplomats. Mother and Dad were both doctors. Two doctors and the ship had no medical staff – perhaps that’s why they were given passage.’

Neville Hogan, born in Rangoon in 1923, was the youngest of four children. His father was Irish and his mother a Karen. Hogan Senior was a shipping company administrator and his wife was a schoolteacher:

‘Our life was comfortably middle class and very pleasant. We socialised with local people and the substantial English community then resident in Rangoon. I attended an English school in the city. Unlike so many other countries in the Far East at that time, racial issues had no significance in our lives. Marriage between couples of different ethnic background was commonplace.’

Hogan wanted to be a marine engineer but chickenpox affected his eyesight. He decided to study civil engineering at university. When war broke out in Europe, in September 1939, he joined the Territorials – the Burma Auxiliary Force:

‘As I was just 16 I was told to try again when I had reached 18. I went back shortly afterwards, armed with my elder brother’s birth certificate. I soon found myself in the Machine Gun Section. We had some old, watercooled Vickers guns.’

To be a Chindit: Neville Hogan used his brother’s birth certificate to join the Burma Auxiliary Force. (Neville Hogan)

Hogan would command a Chindit Recce Platoon during Operation Thursday in 1944.

Howard ‘Bob’ Hobbs had a more modest start in life. He was born in North London in 1922. His father was wounded twice during the Great War, once in the hip and then in the stomach. Hobbs left school at 14 and went to work at electrical engineers Cox & Co. He repaired car magnetos and dynamos until his call-up in 1941, when he joined the RASC. Drafted overseas in 1942, Hobbs was posted to the Indian Army Clerical Corps. He soon became bored and this put him in the frame of mind to volunteer for Wingate’s first expedition: ‘I don’t know why I volunteered. I suppose I wanted excitement. I certainly got it!’

Alec Gibson volunteered for military service. He was born in 1921 and lived in Surbiton, Surrey. As a young man Gibson sought a career in the aircraft industry. When war began he was an apprentice design draughtsman with Hawker Aircraft at Kingston. The firm then scrapped its peacetime apprenticeships and Alec was offered a new job as a fitter. He was happy. He had been paid less than a pound a week as an apprentice and the new job boosted his money fivefold overnight. Nevertheless, he was discontented, as many of his friends had already joined up:

Posted to India: George Fulton went to the Far East after service with a Field Ambulance Unit in the Western Desert. (George Fulton)

‘Working in the aircraft industry was a Reserved Occupation, but I went to the local Recruiting Office and volunteered for the Army. By that time I had moved to a local garage making small components for Hawker Aircraft. I got away with it. I mentioned fitter and garage but left out the Hawker name.’

Gibson’s first taste of service life was as a Private with the East Surreys. He spent two years on aerodrome and coastal defence: ‘Looking back, we were the first line of defence had the Germans invaded. In that event, we would have been wiped out on the beaches.’

George Fulton wanted to join the Territorials as war loomed but he had other things on his mind. He was born in 1919 and the family lived in Aberdeen, where his father was a porter in the busy fish market. Nineteen-year-old George worked for the Town Council and was courting his future wife, Jean. Two friends at the Council had joined the Territorials, attached to 15th Scottish General Hospital, but Fulton was loath to sacrifice two evenings a week. Nevertheless, he joined his friends in April 1939, his pay being 2/6 a night. He was called up on 1 September 1939, on the eve of war:

‘I attempted to join the Royal Signals but they were full. I ended up at Southampton for basic training with the RAMC. My unit was part of 51st Highland Division. They put up a very stiff fight in France before going into captivity. Fortunately, our detachment was held back. We never went to France.’

Fulton had several close calls of this type. One half of his unit went to the Scottish east coast and the other to the west coast. Fulton went east, to take part in the illfated Norwegian campaign of 1940. Bergen fell as the voyage began and their ship turned back. Only a few weeks later the men were issued with topees, an obvious clue to a warm climate posting:

‘We were about to go to North Africa and I asked to see the Colonel. I had got engaged on 1 September 1939 and had spent my £5 call-up money on an engagement ring. I now requested 24 hours’ leave to get married. Permission granted! Jean and I were married in Aberdeen on 18 June 1940.’

One week later the 15th Scottish General Hospital – a dozen of Aberdeen’s finest doctors, some 20 nurses and nearly 200 men – boarded the Aquitania at Liverpool. In the company of the Queen Mary and Mauretania, they sailed for Egypt. Fulton entered Tobruk fortress with 173rd Field Ambulance, having been transferred in with a small group of replacements: ‘We lost 11 men at Tobruk, then moved to Syria, to join the Australian 11th Infantry Brigade in their fight against Vichy French forces.’ Subsequently, Fulton was posted to India.

Orde Wingate’s success in Palestine resulted in the award of a DSO. Allen (Burma: The Longest War) noted another consequence: ‘transfer from an area where his pronounced pro-Zionist views were felt to be a political embarrassment, as well as somewhat peculiar in an Army Officer.’¹¹

The march of events and powerful friends positioned Wingate for his next challenge. Italy entered the war in June 1940 and Wingate’s flair for irregular warfare, together with his experience with the Sudan Defence Force, promised a significant role in ejecting the Italians from Abyssinia.

Leo Amery urged Wavell to employ Wingate, who had arrived in Cairo during October 1940. Wingate’s mother-in-law later wrote: ‘Next to leading a Jewish army, the idea of righting the injustice inflicted upon the Emperor of Abyssinia was at that time a project nearer to his heart than any other.’¹²

Haile Selassie was a rallying point and Wingate formed a close bond with him. He created ‘Gideon Force’, with around 2,000 Sudanese and Abyssinian Regulars, 1,000 Abyssinian guerrillas and a cadre of British officers and NCOs. Sound tactics, fighting prowess and bluff allowed Gideon Force to overcome 36,000 Italian troops with armoured cars, artillery and air support. The defeat of the Italians was achieved by much larger conventional forces; but Wingate had made his contribution and it was he who rode the Emperor’s white horse (at Haile Selassie’s insistence) during the victorious entry into Addis Ababa.¹¹

With Haile Selassie restored, Orde Wingate returned to Cairo in June 1941. He was angry and greatly dissatisfied with his lot, despite his successes. The reasons are complex. Wingate had arrived in Egypt during the third quarter of 1940 with a plan to attack Libya. The concept included much original thinking and his ideas (including the use of remote bases and air supply) were applied later in a very different theatre of war. Wingate still smarted from GHQ’s rejection of his Libyan proposals, his cold reception in Cairo after recent triumphs and his reduction in rank to Major. These negatives dominated his mood, rather than the satisfaction which should have been drawn from a highly positive outcome in Abyssinia and the earlier outstanding success in Palestine. Haile Selassie had entered Addis Ababa on 5 May 1941. Rooney (Wingate and the Chindits) wrote:

In the Ethiopian campaign over 200,000 Italian troops were defeated by the five Commonwealth Divisions which operated from Eritrea and Kenya, but Wingate, with about two Battalions, grabbed the limelight for his brilliant work with Gideon Force.¹³

Wingate was to remain frustrated. The Army establishment disliked his methods, strident attitude and open commitment to Zionism. Wingate, for his part, was openly intolerant of opposition. He dwelt on the loss of the Special Night Squads, rejection of the Libyan plan and the break up of Gideon Force. Requests for an immediate return to active service were rejected. Wingate then overreached himself in a report peppered with intemperate language. This report, significantly, referred to his concept of ‘Long Range Penetration’, but one comment, in particular, caused grave offence. He wrote that the decision to disband Gideon Force was the mark of a ‘military ape’.

The Emperor restored: Haile Selassie and Orde Wingate formed a close bond. (Trustees of the Imperial War Museum)

Wingate’s depression was aggravated by severe malaria and large, unsupervised doses of the suppressant Atabrin. This precursor to Mepacrine was known to amplify depression, potentially to the point of suicide. During the afternoon of 4 July 1941, Wingate had a temperature of 104°. He left his hotel in search of the local doctor. Finding the doctor absent, he returned to his room and attempted suicide. He took a revolver, put it to his head and pulled the trigger. It misfired. He then stabbed himself in the neck. Some accounts claim that an officer in the next room heard a noise and responded; others state that an hotel employee opened the door. In any event, Wingate was rushed to hospital.¹⁴

George Fulton kept a secret throughout his service with the Chindits over two years later, as a Medical Orderly with 14 Brigade. Fulton had been in Cairo on 4 July 1941. He was in his billet at the 15th Scottish General Hospital that afternoon. His Sergeant-Major opened the door and told him to prepare to nurse an officer who had attempted suicide:

‘I was to report to the Officers’ Ward at 6pm to begin special nursing – one patient, one Orderly. I did nearly three weeks of night duty, 6pm to 6am, looking after Orde Wingate, who was to be my Chindit chief in Burma.’

Entering the ward on that first evening, Fulton found Wingate unconscious following an operation. The patient’s neck was heavily bandaged:

‘When he came to, he found everyone was from Aberdeen, where his wife came from. We got on very well. One of the first things he asked for was some soda water. We had none but, later, I managed to get a few bottles for him. His dressings were changed during the day, but I gathered that the main wound was to the left side of the neck. He had missed the main artery. We chatted a lot as the days passed, although his mood was very quiet and sombre.

‘At one point, when off duty, I went to the cinema and watched Haile Selassie restored as Emperor of Ethiopia on Movietone News. I mentioned this to Wingate and he replied: That was lots of fun. He then said: I want to show you something. He pulled three items out of his kit. I can remember two. There was a set of four interlocked gold rings, about 1¼ in. in diameter, presented to him by Haile Selassie. He then showed me another gift. It was the most beautiful gold watch. I remember it had Westminster Chimes. On the back was an engraved representation of the Lion of Judah, wearing his crown, with diamonds, rubies and other precious stones. Throughout my service in India and Burma, I never told anyone I had nursed Wingate in Egypt. I had hoped to meet him again but never did.’

Over 20 years later, in 1963, Alice Hay wrote of her son-in-law:

I am convinced that Orde committed this act when he did not know what he was doing. If he had been fully conscious, he would not have bungled it so badly, for he was the most efficient man I ever knew at carrying through any job he undertook. I am equally certain that in no circumstances would he ever again have attempted to take his life.¹⁵

Wingate was fortunate. His psychologist understood the potentially catastrophic side-effects of Atabrin. On 22 July he declared him fit and ready to convalesce. Wingate sailed for England in September.

A Medical Board approved his regrading for active service after three months. With encouragement from his family, Wingate now rewrote his report on Abyssinia. Leo Amery and Cousin Rex helped him and the paper was circulated to people of influence. One copy reached Churchill. Lobbying activities tended to further inflame Wingate’s detractors. Rooney wrote: ‘His attempted suicide became a cause célèbre in Cairo and beyond … the devotion of those who supported him was matched only by the viciousness of those who opposed him.’¹⁴

There were times when Orde Wingate’s every action seemed to offend. He remains famous for his eccentricities and there are many stories of his odd behaviour. Some are true. The author’s father talked of Wingate’s passion for onions. When addressing troops he had the habit of drawing a raw onion from his pocket and munching it, praising its life-giving qualities. Many men have such memories. Sergeant Tony Aubrey of The King’s (Liverpool) concluded that Wingate’s faith in onions was well-placed:

While we were within reach of base, sacks of them used always to be available. A dixieful was continually simmering on the fire of my Platoon at night and, even if no-one else happened to feel onionminded, I used to make a pretty good hole in the contents myself before going to sleep. Most of the men joined me after a day or two, though, and I can highly recommend a pound or two of boiled onions as a sleeping draught. We ate so many of them, raw and cooked, that sometimes I used to feel sorry for anyone who didn’t care for them.¹⁶

Perhaps more disconcerting for the uninitiated was Wingate’s habit of receiving officers and giving orders while naked. He tended to make his point in unforgettable ways. During training, apparently, Wingate came across a group of unarmed officers. Incensed at their defenceless condition, he drew his revolver, fired over their heads and told them to put their hands up. On another occasion, when a stream suddenly became a Monsoon torrent, Wingate swam to the group of officers expected at his Headquarters and promptly ordered them to swim back with him.¹⁷

Orde Wingate may have been declared fit after Cairo but his Army career required rescue at the highest level. Wavell intervened once again, encouraged by Amery. The outcome was a posting to the Far East. Wingate was far from grateful – he felt he was being sidelined and repeated the mistake of venting his feelings on paper. A vitriolic memorandum gave his growing body of enemies fresh ammunition.¹⁴ The Far East, nonetheless, would provide fertile ground for Wingate’s original mind and highly unorthodox approach to modern warfare.

Many regarded Wingate’s Far East posting as a good solution all round, but his mother-in-law, Alice Hay (another passionate Zionist), shared his distaste. This was a digression from Wingate’s raison d’être, the promotion of the Jewish cause. Summing up Wingate’s own reaction, she commented: ‘He felt it was a great waste of his experience to send him to a part of the world that he neither knew nor, indeed, particularly wanted to know. He was right. He should never have been sent to Burma at all; he should have been allowed to continue to operate in the Middle East.’ Perhaps, however, the true measure of Orde Wingate’s greatness is that he put aside deeply entrenched personal frustrations and set to work, developing his concept of Long Range Penetration and bringing it to its ultimate flowering in a Burmese setting.¹⁸

Yet there remained a heavy measure of discomfort in Wingate’s relationships. Alice Hay painted a picture of a man with virtually every military and political hand set against him. On arriving in the Far East he expected opposition from every quarter and, in consequence, over-compensated – believing he had no choice if resistance was to be overcome.

The British had suffered a catastrophic defeat in Burma during 1942. The Japanese proved unstoppable and British forces were pushed across the Chindwin and into India. No-one felt the pain more than Neville Hogan; his country was swallowed by the Japanese. Hogan had been content with life before war came. Things tended to go his way and he had already achieved one ambition:

‘I had always wanted to drive a Rolls-Royce. There were only five in Burma and one belonged to the Governor. The other four were Burma Auxiliary Force armoured cars, dating back to the early 1920s or even earlier. I soon got my wish, even if my Rolls-Royce had solid tyres and had seen better days.’

News of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941 came during Annual Camp:

‘We were embodied immediately and despatched as a perimeter defence unit for Mingaladon, near Rangoon, the biggest of Burma’s two main airfields. The Japanese bombed it on 24 December.’

Hogan watched, frozen in amazement, as a stick of bombs fell neatly between the detachment’s four armoured cars and a huge dump of petrol cans. The only damage was a slight dent to one car, caused by shrapnel. A few weeks later they were ordered south to Moulmein. Information about the Japanese advance was scanty and they ran into an ambush nine miles north of their objective. The road was protected against Monsoon floods by high bunds. The enemy had selected a suitable bend and had blocked the road by felling a tree:

‘I was driving the lead car when we rounded that bend. I saw four or five Japs firing at us. Our officer opened up with the Vickers. Each car had a crew of four but we had a passenger – a young British Gurkha officer who had been entrusted with a secret message, to be delivered in person. We weren’t closed up for action and bullets went through our hatches and sprayed around inside the car. We were all hit, our passenger suffering a fatal wound. He was shot in the stomach and one look was quite enough to realise that there was no hope. I watched, mesmerised,